


And the Grass Won't Pay No Mind

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [1]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn With Plot, except fucking blonde., there is a lot of sex though. just a warning lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: They fuck nine times before White shoots Orange. Each time, they fall a little harder.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765930
Comments: 28
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> don't you think larry listens to neil diamond. i do.  
> my mandatory “but what if they lived” au, cause goddamnit tarantino, i like happy endings 
> 
> thank you for reading, enjoy!

_Close my eyes_

_And hear the flowers growin'_

_As you lay sleeping in my arms_

_And the time will be our time_

_And the grass won't pay no mind_

Neil Diamond – Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show

They fuck nine times before White shoots Orange.

The first time – let’s just say, Larry Dimmick would excuse his way out of talking about it, after he smacked you for asking.

It’s something he holds close to his heart, somewhere tender and buried and guarded by all the walls he’s put up over the years. Not for any particular heartwrenching reason – but because of who he was and what he did, he had to protect himself where he was the most vulnerable. It was a survival tactic, really.

Eddie invites him to meet the new guy, and of course, you’re not allowed to politely decline, as much as Larry would like to. He’d like to tell them all to fuck off so he can watch the ball game, but, somewhat ironically, he has to go play ball. And he does – he spritzes his nice cologne, he puts on a nice shirt, a nice fucking shirt that he bothers to get dry-cleaned, all for these ungrateful bastards.

He knows he cleans up like a new penny – it’s just a matter of getting all the shit together, for once. He could have someone do it for him, Christ knew he had enough money. He simply wasn’t willing to take the blow to his pride – he could pick out his own underwear, thank you.

If he throws back a nip of whiskey before he walks out the door, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. He wasn’t nervous, he was too seasoned to be nervous, but – still. It settles him.

Larry arrives at the bar while they’re still ordering drinks. They wave to him, all smiles. He likes Joe, he really does, has known him too long not to. He’s a funny guy, and he conducts business well. This won’t have been his first job for Joe, and, if he’s lucky, it won’t be his last.

Eddie, on the other hand – you’d be dead before you caught Larry calling him “Nice Guy” – strikes him as a little bit of a prick. He’s got no real power, and yet he struts around like the he owns the place because of his Daddy’s reputation. Larry doesn’t make trouble, but under different circumstances, he’d like to beat the arrogance out of the kid.

Larry orders himself a martini, watches the bar move and sway with people as he waits to be served. Across the way, the door opens, and a pretty-boy walks through, all long-long legs and donning a leather jacket a size too big for him.

Like a fly to honey, Larry is always interested in a development like this. Even if it gets him swatted.

Pretty-boy slinks across the bar and presses himself to the counter, has to talk a little loudly to order his drink. The bartender, an old cougar of a woman, smiles at him. She’s noticed pretty-boy, too.

But pretty-boy’s eyes are on Larry, absorbing him, two of his perfect top teeth worrying the bottom of his plush lip. He leans against the bar with his hip jut out, and Larry prays for the Lord to deliver him from temptation.

Pretty boy wets his lips with whatever he’s drinking, and for a ridiculous second Larry thinks the kid is wearing lipstick. He really wishes he didn’t have that thought, because now he’s about to sit down to talk business with a semi in his waistband.

And then pretty boy winks, and walks away, and goes to sit with Joe and Eddie. Larry’s jaw drops to his knees, and he stalls for a second, mourning his professionalism.

Pretty-boy’s story is bullshit. It’s good, and he tells it like he means it, but it’s bullshit.

The details… they’re too fine-tuned, like he’s reading from a book rather than pulling from memory. No one remembers what the fuck a bathroom smells like, man.

Whatever he – now dubbed Mr. Orange – is feeding them, Joe and Eddie are eating up. Joe nods his head, and Larry voices his agreement, because it was a good story, real or fake. He’s bluffed himself into positions in his day, he’s not going to be the one to cost the kid his job.

Joe nods once, and that’s it: they are now Mr. White and Mr. Orange, part of a six-man team recruited to rob a diamond wholesaler. They shake on it, and Eddie and Joe depart, saying their goodnights.

Mr. Orange – Larry rolls his eyes at the damn aliases – lingers. He’s sipping on a cocktail Larry doesn’t remember the name of, but it doesn’t matter, because that drink is fucking _fruity,_ and so is this kid.

Larry’s played ball tonight. Now he needs a win. If the kid doesn’t mind that they’ll have to pretend while they work together, neither does Larry.

“Two fags on one job,” Mr. Orange says softly, hidden under the bass of the music, the whistles at the strippers. His voice is feather-soft, and he looks up at Larry with desire of the worst kind in his eyes, written in the pull of his pouty lips.

Mr. Orange smiles, averting his eyes. He’s almost bashful. “Ain’t that somethin’?”

And then they’re fucking in the bathroom. Freddy Newandyke, now under Mr. Orange, is going to cum on the fingers of a man whose name he doesn’t even know, spread across a porcelain club bathroom sink and using liquid soap as lube.

 _Here’s this for your commode story,_ he thinks distantly. Most of his energy is focused on the fingers in his ass, and how the hell Mr. White makes them feel so fucking fantastic.

Freddy’s enjoying it. He didn’t come here expecting to get fucked, but he wasn’t going to refuse when opportunity came knocking. This man, this Mr. White, had just gawked at him the entire time he was weaving his tale to Joe and Nice Guy. White watched him like he was something to eat, something to conquer, and Freddy felt half the things he was supposed to say go out through his dick.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Mr. White murmurs, and Freddy abruptly remembers the last time he got fucked was in the police academy, that he hasn’t had dick in ages, and wonders how much it’s going to sting.

He keeps himself relaxed from the belly down. That, at least, he remembers.

But White is so gentle, keeping Freddy steady with one of his broad hands clasped around his thigh. The back of Freddy’s head bumps against the mirror above the sink and he hikes his leg up a little higher, straightens his back a little bit more. He finds himself wanting to be good for White, this anonymous man he’s only just met.

“Yeah, yeah I’m –“ Freddy says, and Mr. White doesn’t wait for him to finish before pushing in.

Freddy squeezes his eyes shut so tightly a tear forms under his lashes, rolls down his cheek. It’s more anxiety than anything, and he flushes, embarrassed.

Mr. White brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, and Freddy melts a little.

“Should I stop?” Mr. White asks softly, and Freddy laughs, flushed down to his chest now.

“Please don’t,” Freddy says honestly. “I want it. You.”

“My name is Larry, kid,” he says. “Please, enough of the Mr. White shit.”

Freddy sucks at his lip. They’re not supposed to tell, but White – Larry – is already inside him, for God’s sake. It feels unfair not to introduce himself, especially when he wants the guy to finish fucking him.

“I’m Freddy,” he mumbles. His voice sounds needy to his own ears, and he flushes a little harder. In his defense, Larry is still inside him while they’re having this little aside.

“Freddy,” Larry says, like he was savoring the sound of it. He smiles, and kisses Freddy chastely, sweetly. He kisses like Freddy hadn’t been kissed since he was sixteen years old, and his first boyfriend would kiss him gingerly, sweetly, between class periods.

“Just relax, Freddy. Let me make you feel good,” Larry murmurs, skimming his fingers against the head of Freddy’s dick. Freddy makes a weak little sound and relaxes, like Larry found the button that did it.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Larry praises him, stroking his dick a few times, leaning in so close Freddy can smell that nice cologne he had put on. “There you go, baby.”

Freddy whimpers. It had been a long fucking time since he’d fucked like this, and it doesn’t take more than a minute or so for his breathing to pick up, hot against Larry’s chest. He realizes that he’s chanting “oh god, oh fuck”, under his breath, like a little mantra, as Larry hits the bullseye again, and again, and again.

“Oh, shit,” is the last thing Freddy gets out before his comes all over his own stomach, and probably the lower seam of his shirt. Then Larry goes and does some erotic shit that almost has Freddy hard again: he licks a single thin strip down Freddy’s belly, and makes sure Freddy sees him swallow.

Larry nearly pulls out, but Freddy grabs his hand, presses it to his sticky stomach.

“You didn’t finish,” he says quietly.

“Aw, that’s okay, kid,” Larry says. And it was. He had fun, regardless.

“No, I –“ Freddy says, raspy, still stuck in his own afterglow. “Want you to. S’rude not to.”

“Oh, it’s rude, huh?” Larry says, laughing. The kid really was a sweetheart, then. But you don’t have to tell him twice – Freddy hum pleasantly as Larry fucks into him, comes with a groan.

Larry pulls out quickly after that. A club bathroom is not the place you want to be half naked for long. Freddy scrubs some wet paper towels over his stomach, muttering about jizz stains.

“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” Larry chuckles. He would, too. He’s smitten with this kid already, and it’s a nice change of pace for a lonely old conman.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im having a good time writing this, if you couldn't tell. this is the most fun project ive set for myself in a while lol

The second time they have sex, Freddy is absolutely gagging for it.

It’s the first day of discussing operations of the wholesaler, Joe prattling on in front of his chalkboard, and Freddy can’t stop thinking about Larry’s dick.

He can’t stop thinking about Larry's thumb on his cheek, either, or how his name sounds on Larry’s lips. He can’t stop thinking about the curve of Larry’s back as he fucks him, dirty and delicious, while somehow managing to kiss him so gently, as if Freddy were made of the finest china. He has to focus almost all of his brainpower on not squirming in his seat.

It’s really an unsavory bitch of a situation, especially when Larry – _Mr. White,_ Freddy keeps correcting himself. They’re on the clock, now.

Especially when _Mr. White_ keeps shooting glances back at him, grinning, like he knows exactly what fucking game they’re playing. Freddy nearly chokes on his cigarette.

How this guy, this suave Butch Cassidy motherfucker, is into Freddy’s twerp ass, he will never know. But he knows how not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and as soon as Joe calls for a break, he’s out the door like there was a fire under his ass.

“Wonder what his deal is,” Larry says coolly. But twenty seconds later, he’s hot on Orange’s trail. Mr. Pink and Mr. Blonde exchange a look, and Mr. Blue takes an uncaring drag off his cigarette, suggests some Mexican place for lunch.

Larry bursts through the warehouse doors that lead to a back alley, where – _Sweet Mary holy Jesus mother of God –_ the kid is already touching himself. He’s pink in the face, eyes screwed up, with his pants around his knees. His belt is half fallen to the ground, clinking on the pavement. He’s got one hand down his tighty-whities, the other braced against the brick alley wall behind him.

There’s no bluffing his way out of this one. If any of the guys caught him like this, it’d be impossible to explain away. And for some awful, perverse reason, Larry fucking loves it.

“You just couldn’t wait?” Larry asks, halfway to laughter. This fuckin’ kid, man.

“Thinkin’ about you in there…” Freddy mutters. He hasn’t stopped jerking himself off, and Larry has started to sweat beneath his collar. “Got me worked up to all hell.”

“Little old me,” Larry purrs, finally close enough to touch. He replaces Freddy’s hand with his own, and the kid is _hot._ Larry feels like his body heat might burn them both. “Got you like this?”

And Freddy just nods, nods profusely with his pretty pink mouth fallen open, nods with wild abandon, like he’s crazy for it. Larry kisses his open mouth, because, dammit, he’s only human. The kid tastes like cigarettes and stale soda, but it’s the best thing Larry’s ever had the pleasure of sampling.

Freddy keeps moaning quietly, frustrated, but not asking for anything else. Larry takes pity on him; he’s not a fucking sadist. Its crystal-clear Freddy’s never gonna finish like this. Larry glances around the alley and decides it’s clean enough.

“I’m gonna suck you off, sweetheart,” he says, whispering softly into the shell of Freddy’s ear, just to see his eyes pop open in surprise. Larry smirks big, satisfied with himself.

Most guys – especially the young, pretty, and inexperienced – thought Larry would be greedy in bed, take what he wanted and leave. He could, and he had, but he likes this kid. Besides, Larry knew what it was like to be taken advantage of. This fling might go nowhere, but for the moment, Larry wants them both to have a good time.

Larry sinks to his knees, hands around Freddy’s thin waist, and Freddy makes a choked off sound. This fucking dude, on his knees, for him? Good God, somebody pinch him.

“You don’t,” Freddy says in a gasp. “Have to.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me suck your dick, kid,” Larry mutters into his belly, the hair of his happy trail fluttering under his breath.

Freddy breaks out in goosebumps and shudders, knowing he’s truly fucked, in more ways than one. Larry, Mr. White, who the fuck ever, is dragging him down into the depths, and he’s putting up zero struggle. He’s gonna drown if he’s not careful, but Jesus, if it doesn’t feel good.

Freddy had always thought the expression “see stars” had to be bullshit, but when Larry gets Freddy’s dick in his mouth, some kind of explosion goes off in his head. He makes a sound that is downright embarrassing, something like a high-pitched groan. He's too far gone to care.

“Oh my _God,”_ Freddy says, somewhat on the loud side, and Larry smiles around him. He’s good at this, and he knows it. He pinches Freddy’s ass affectionately, and he quiets. No need for them to get discovered unnecessarily.

Their game wasn’t dangerous, not really – Freddy might have been closeted, but Joe caught Larry with his fingers in some cute little number fifteen-odd years ago. And if anyone else wanted to say shit, Joe would shut them up. He was gruff and he was an ass, but he was good like that. He took care of his own.

Larry sets the rhythm, and Freddy takes whatever he feels like giving, takes it like he was made to. His back is pressed against the wall, and Larry runs his hand down the curve of it, thinking about how next time, he wants to feel every naked inch of the kid.

They say you’re not supposed to touch artwork, but Larry has never been particularly good at following the rules.

_Come on, baby, look at me,_ Larry is thinking, not able to voice this particular desire, but then Freddy does, like he’s fucking telekinetic or some comic book shit. He’s all sweet doe eyes and curved bow lips, hair falling in his rounded, rosy face, innocent-looking despite their current activities. They watch each other for a few tentative seconds, and then Freddy comes down his throat, the tight heat and practiced motion finally getting to him.

Larry swallows and gets to his feet. It’s not the best taste in the world, but spitting is for pussies. The open look of adoration on Freddy’s sweet face is well worth it, anyway. 

Larry kisses him with his dick still out, feeling giddy, of all things. Freddy threads his fingers through Larry’s hair, traces his jaw with his little finger. They kiss for a good long minute, enjoying each other. Who was this fucking kid, and why did he make Larry feel this way?

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Larry says. “Let’s grab a bite. I have a taste I need to get out of my mouth.”

Freddy laughs, and Larry links their fingers. He hasn’t held hands in decades, but somehow, with Freddy, it feels right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, three chapters in as many days? don't get used to it, i'll tell you that. 
> 
> hope this gives yall some more substance than freddy gets a blowjob: the chapter. enjoy!

The third time they fuck, Freddy is a bundle of nerves.

Everything about his apartment is wrong – too small, too cramped, too messy. He tries to clean up, really he does, but he just ends up pacing, looking at himself in the mirror to pick at some minor flaw, and pacing again. He does this for hours, until there’s a knock on his shitty, splintering door.

Freddy _jumps,_ binkies like a bunny rabbit two inches in the air. He smooths his hair back in the mirror for the he-can’t-count-that-high number of times. He points into his reflection.

“You fucking got this,” he tells it meaningfully, and opens the door, hoping his false-faced bravado can pull him through another one.

And then there’s Larry, standing in the doorway, cool as a goddamn cucumber. He’s fiddling with the cardboard edge of the pizza box he’s holding, not a care in the world. There’s an unlit cigarette between his teeth, and his hair is slicked back, perfectly styled in a way Freddy had only seen that night at the club.

Freddy has spent way too much time thinking about that night at the club, he fucking knows.

_He cleaned up for me,_ Freddy thinks, feeling like someone replaced his stomach acid with cheap champagne. His nerves bubble dead center in his gut, warm and sickly-sweet. He swallows, hoping something, fucking anything all, isn’t being broadcast all over his face.

Freddy knew the art of being cool, of keeping cool. He had literally read the book on it, to pass some fuckin’ test or another. And not to suck his own cock, or anything, but he liked to think he could pull it off when he needed to.

But Freddy Newandyke himself was _not_ cool. He was a jittery, fresh-faced kid who lied well enough to cover his ass, who could tell a fib more intertwined and detailed than some paperbacks. He was not cool, but he played the part well, wove his web to rival a spider’s.

Larry was cooler than cool, Larry was ice-fuckin-cold. His brilliant smile was filled with shark’s teeth, and he didn’t hesitate with the bite. Larry was – Larry was fucking talking to him, and head-in-the-clouds Freddy isn’t catching any of it.

“ – so I made sure she got a nice tip, ‘cause it was my fuckin’ fault for dropping the pizza,” Larry concludes, as Freddy finally tunes in. Freddy nods, hoping his smirk looks genuine.

“If you’re done blabbering on my doorstep, come inside,” he says, and Larry pokes him hard between the ribs, grinning like he’s won a million bucks.

“Fucking rude,” Freddy mutters, rubbing his side. But Larry is already settled on his couch.

Larry watches as Freddy frets by the door. He’s not as discreet as he think he is, and anyway, Larry is charmed that the kid thinks he’s something good enough to fret over. Watching Freddy fix his hair in the mirror, Larry feels it, like an even, perfectly aimed blow to the stomach. He’d probably have keeled over if he hadn’t already sat.

_Oh, Christ,_ Larry thinks, because he knows this feeling, and he knows how much fucking trouble it can be. And then Freddy is there, looking at Larry with intention, with laser-focused intention in his big shiny eyes. He’s sucking on the corner of his lip for dear life, and Larry loses most of what he was thinking about.

Larry would like to put this kid in a glass bottle, the way you do rare, breathtaking specimens. He’d like to hide him away from the cruelties of this life, to keep the kid’s spirit as bright as it was right now. Impossible, ridiculous thoughts – but he has them, regardless.

So, he does the next best thing, and that’s pulling Freddy into his lap.

Freddy lands with a squeak of surprise, pink in the face when he turns to face Larry. It stains the end of his nose and the tips of his ears – _so easy,_ Larry thinks. Was he so easy, at that age? Could a career criminal have spun him around, pulled him into his lap?

_Probably,_ he decides.

“Hi,” Freddy says, and bursts out laughing. At himself, at Larry, at the absurdity of finding himself in this criminal’s lap. At being a fag playing a cop playing a petty thief. At liking Larry so much it pains him, so much it keeps him up at night, debating about crashing his whole op for this guy he’s known for just shy of a week. Or maybe longer – how long has it fucking been?

It feels like a lifetime, or more.

“Hi,” Larry says, and then he’s laughing too, bumping his forehead into Freddy’s neck as he does, smelling his cheap ivory soap and nervous sweat. Freddy – something breaks inside him to feel Larry all over him, intruding all his senses, because it’s all so fucking _nuts,_ it’s all spinning out under him. And God, he just likes Larry so much.

Freddy wishes he really were a criminal, or Larry would reveal himself to be a cop, or God would snap His fingers and make all of his problems disappear. He wishes the wholesalers robbery would go up in smoke, he wishes he had the balls on him to tell Larry the truth. He wishes, and he wishes, and nothing comes true; and he realizes he’s holding on to Larry with his eyes shut, wishing.

“You alright, buddy-boy?” Larry is asking him, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. Freddy tells himself not to go and do a stupid thing like cry.

“Fine,” he lies, voice even and flat, and his lie is good, his lie is perfect. Freddy knows how to lie.

Larry doesn’t push him, doesn’t try to get anything out of him. Freddy could go ahead and cry from relief, too. No, Larry only nods curtly, like he understands it all. Like he’s already forgiven Freddy and they’ve made it out on the other side, alive and together.

_Get your head out of your ass, Newandyke. Ain’t no fuckin’ fairy tales for fairies._

He lets Larry hold him, for a little while. They both realize that that it’s usually a post-sex activity, but Freddy is teetering on some kind of edge, and Larry wouldn’t feel right fucking him over it.

Larry’s got big warm hands, dry, and clean, neat fingernails. He cups Freddy’s face, and Freddy closes his eyes, just feeling him there.

Freddy has never been in love, doesn’t believe in “soulmates” or “the one”. But he figures if he’s got a shot at anything at all in this life, it’s through Larry Dimmick, and his confusing career as a criminal despite his sincere, open nature.

Freddy doesn’t even let himself think that it might be _him_ that inspires those things in Larry. He doesn’t let those thoughts pass out of the peripheral of his mind, where the impossible things live.

Freddy reminds himself that people are deeper than they seem on the outside. His perspective is limited, this he knows from his time booking perps. He’s catalogued things he would gag at doing himself, done because of a lover, or a child, or a fantastic sum of money.

Freddy had never been the cop who spits on criminals. Maybe it was that he was too young or too inexperienced, not yet hardened by the brutalities of being a cop. But when Freddy looked at someone he had just collected from the station, he saw more than the fingerprints pressed in their file. He saw the face of a desperate man or woman, who broke a rule society deemed they had to be locked away for.

Freddy was no better. Freddy had the stickiest fingers of all his high school buddies; must have robbed himself a small convenience store’s worth of snack cakes within those four years. Now, maybe that was an unfair comparison, but he knew he could be right there beside them, if his story had been weaved a little differently. If he had less aptitude for knowing when to turn tail and run.

His mother, a wizened old-World Catholic, always told him no one had the right to judge but God. He had always believed that, believed it more sincerely than he ever did anything they shoveled down his throat at the academy.

“Can we fuck?” Freddy asks softly, forcing himself to look Larry in the eye when he says it. 

“For you, kid?” Larry says, leaning in like he means it. “Anything.”

It’s strange, being led to his own bed, but Freddy lets Larry do as he pleases. He trusts him, trusts him to take care of things. It’s probably the stupidest thing he’s ever believed – stupider than when he sent out for those x-ray glasses as a kid, the ones they promoted on the back of cereal boxes.

Stupid is as stupid does, and Freddy trusts Larry foolhardily.

“I have condoms, if you want,” Larry says, and slots the unlit cig he’d been toying with onto Freddy’s ashtray. Freddy shakes his head, smiling like the damned fool he is.

“Whatever you got, I’m already crawling with,” he says, and Larry barks back a laugh. Freddy grins. He’d caught him by surprise.

_And imagine how surprised he’ll be when you tell him you’re a cop,_ a terrible little voice in his head says. His Jiminy Cricket was chirping away, reminding him of what a piece of shit he was, and how he couldn’t hide his stink forever.

Freddy shoves it away, and they kiss hard and deep and slow, legs intertwined over the side of Freddy's unmade bed. Larry’s mouth is demanding, bruising, and Freddy is pliant beneath him. The kid seems to need this, in Larry’s amateur opinion. He doesn’t know what’s buggin’ at him, doesn’t ask. He hopes Freddy will volunteer something, but he’s not gonna shake him down for it.

Larry himself was in tears the night of his first big job, and though they’re still a few days off from the heist, he can at least empathize with the jitters. It should be simple, though, and if Larry gets his way, the kid will never have to do another job again.

It should be a good career cap. One last job, and then riding off into the sunset. Freddy has settled under his skin by now, and it would leave Larry aching, if the kid decides not to come with him when he books it, flies the coop to greener pastures.

So, he hasn’t mentioned it. But after everything, that’s his plan. His backup plan is to blow Freddy until he agrees, or hog tie him, so he’s got no choice. But he’ll try asking, first. Even though it’s more his style just to take what he wants.

Freddy hums into his mouth, and Larry can feel it vibrate in the back of his throat. Jesus Lord, he’s so gone for this kid, it wasn’t even funny anymore. He could be in deep shit, and he doesn’t even care. Even now, he doesn’t care, he just wants to feel every inch of soft skin Freddy has to offer.

“Are we gonna kiss all night, or are you gonna fuck me?” Freddy asks, teasing, and Larry nips at the plushness of his bottom lip. Freddy hisses, like a teakettle someone forgot to take off the burner. He glares.

_Good,_ Larry thinks, with no real heat. _Serves the little smartass._

They shrug out of their clothes, then, leaving them in distracted heaps on Freddy’s floor.

Larry gets a real look at Freddy for the first time. Before this, it’s been all fumbled, half-clothed fucking, and he hadn’t had the chance to see more than a bit of him at a time. But he takes him in now, in a sweeping gaze that makes Freddy want to run for cover, because somehow, Larry’s seeing it _all._

He’s seeing it all, every mark and flaw, every jut of every angle in every bone of his body, and he calls it all beautiful.

“Gorgeous,” Larry says, kissing him, stroking the line of his torso, because he wants to and because he can. Freddy doubts he’s ever heard that from a lover before – not that he’s had all that many. A strangled, vulnerable sound bubbles up in his throat, escaping before he can swallow it back. Larry just smiles, not minding.

And Larry isn’t half bad himself, Freddy thinks, though he couldn’t manage to voice it like that. He’s built where Freddy is skinny, stout where he’s lanky, the slinking lines of his tattoos going across more than just his forearms. Freddy hopes he’ll get a look at them all, one day. He hopes Larry will tell him the story behind each one.

Freddy’s on his back, then, Larry leaning over him with the dopiest, most serene smile on his face, like he’s come out from the cold and Freddy’s his sun. Freddy wants to spill the beans right then and there; have this be the last thing he sees before Larry puts a bullet in his brain.

“You got stuff?” Larry is asking, and Freddy murmurs that he does, gesturing in what he hopes is the right direction.

Must have been, because Larry is back quick, standing naked with one hand on his hip and the lube in the other. His eyes are dark, watching Freddy like he was watching a damn peep show.

“What’s takin’?” Freddy asks him, feigning annoyed.

“It’s not a fuckin’ relay race,” Larry informs him, rolling his eyes. “But you ain’t know nothing about that, do you, youngin?”

“Still wet around the ears,” Larry goes on, and Freddy realizes he’s being ribbed. He doesn’t reply, just watches Larry continue with his spiel, wondering faintly where he’s going with it.

“Ain’t know nothing about a good fuck,” Larry says, and seemingly all at once, he’s on top of Freddy, got one of his skinny legs bent at the knee and pushed up towards his belly, cupping the semi Freddy’s been sporting since he landed in Larry’s lap.

He kisses him, all lip and no tongue, and one of the last coherent thoughts Freddy has is _this motherfucker must be magic._

It’s clear Larry knows what he’s doing, is seasoned in ways that don’t involve nabbing diamonds. It’s the efficient sort of fucking, Larry doesn’t tease him like he could. Again, the kid seems to need the release, and being pent up on the job could put lives at risk – including Freddy’s own.

Larry very pointedly tries not to think about that, tries to enjoy the kid writhing away on his fingers. And when he gets inside, pushing into Freddy in one fell swoop, he _does_ enjoy it.

Freddy’s being loud, snuffling and moaning and grabbing at Larry’s lower back and pulling him so close he can feel his balls slap against the underside of his ass. Which is so fucking dirty Freddy thinks he’s losing his mind, thinks they’re gonna have to put him in the rubber room after this – and, hey. Wouldn’t that solve at least one of his problems?

And when Freddy comes, he’s not even expecting it. He’s so caught up in _Larry,_ at the look on his face and the concentrated pinch of his brow, that he doesn’t feel his orgasm creep up on him. He shouts, and comes, and Larry grins brilliantly, like he’s won the grand prize of fucking. He momentarily loses his grin as he comes right along with him.

Larry rolls off of him, his jizz drying on the inside of Freddy’s thighs, and turns to him, petting his cheek and tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. 

_I’m in love with you,_ Freddy thinks, and asks Larry for a cigarette.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i appreciate everyone who's left a comment so much <3

They’re like rabbits, after that.

Freddy tries to be embarrassed about them fooling around like teenagers, touching each other when they really shouldn’t. He tries to regret catching kisses behind the warehouse and the quick, breathless hand jobs in Larry’s old Cadillac. He tries, and ultimately fails, because he can't remember ever having so much fun.

Freddy has never been so enamored in all his life. He thinks about Larry all the time, misses him in the handful of hours they’re not together, and wants nothing more than to make him laugh.

He thinks about Larry while he brushes his teeth, at how Larry would unapologetically hog the toothpaste and tease him for how long he takes in the mirror. He thinks about Larry when he makes a fresh pot of coffee, wonders how Larry takes his. He thinks about Larry when Nice Guy honks his horn, thinks about him as he hustles out of the apartment, and is still thinking about him when he gets his man-eating grin, brilliantly white in the front seat of Nice Guy’s car.

“Hey, Mr. White,” he says, and Larry smiles like he’s given him the world.

“Hi, kid.”

The fourth time they have sex, it’s a hurried mess behind the warehouse. Freddy giggles through it because he can’t believe the guys are right on the other side of the wall.

The fifth time, it’s because Larry’s surprised him with a bouquet of flowers. There’s no name on the card, but Freddy knows no one else who would send flowers to his apartment. They’re California poppies – bright orange. Freddy laughs so hard he cries, and later, pounces on Larry like a mountain lion.

The sixth time is a couple of handies between bites of burger.

But number seven – the Lord’s number, the gambler’s number – is special.

Freddy had been napping on Larry’s arm, Larry half interested in the ball game on Freddy’s shitty, staticky TV. 25 hours until the heist. Larry was fine, and knew he would be, but the kid is frayed at the seams, nervous. Larry’s had to take the coffee cup out of his hands twice now; any more caffeine and he’s liable to start shaking.

So maybe that’s the reason that when Freddy opens his eyes, yawns, and asks Larry if he can fuck him – well. Larry has _yes_ on the tip of his tongue before the kid’s finished his pitch.

And that’s how Larry finds himself with Freddy – _this fuckin’ kid,_ he thinks, for neither the first time or the last – slotted between his knees, working him open deep and gentle. Larry doesn’t even remember the last time he’s been on the receiving end; it’s been so many years. He was probably just a little older than Freddy, with an anonymous fling he wouldn’t know from Adam.

Yet, he agreed. He agreed because he’s okay with the kid seeing him like this; vulnerable and laid bare. He couldn’t explain to why, why he trusts the rugrat with the things that could end him, but he does, and he does in a way that is hard to get out of Larry Dimmick. He trusts Freddy in a way that makes him lose him breath, trusts him true and genuine.

Freddy keeps kissing his knees, which is weird as shit, but Larry can’t find his voice to tell him so. Freddy’s sticky fingers come in handy for more than just making a buck – one of their other practical uses is getting Larry to shut his mouth.

Freddy feels like someone’s gone and made his wildest dreams come true. He didn’t know what he would have done if Larry had said no – but Larry said _yes,_ and Freddy is fucking delighted by it.

And Larry is all man, all masculine edges and stocky straight shoulders, the only curves on him being the beginnings of a beer belly. Freddy wants to kiss him all over, and he’s making good progress, actually.

Freddy gets inside in a smooth motion, and nearly comes on the spot when he sees Larry’s face – quiet, but slightly pink, his eyes shut and brows grazing his hairline. It’s the most gratifying thing Freddy’s ever laid eyes on, and he kisses Larry hard and hot on the mouth, unable to help himself. Larry makes a startled sound, like he’d forgotten Freddy was there.

He slaps Freddy’s ass, then. “Giddy-up, cowboy,” he says breathlessly, eyes still shut.

Freddy grins, grins like an idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for him. Even like this Larry’s managing to be a smartass, confident and self-assured.

They talk, in the afterglow. Freddy’s boneless in the crook of Larry’s arm for the second time that day, blowing wobbly smoke rings without raising his head. He’s always stealing Larry’s cigarettes – somehow, they taste better than his own. Sure, he could ask Larry what brand it is and buy them for himself, but he’s got a suspicion that the name on the label has nothing to do with it.

Larry runs his hand through Freddy’s hair, his own cigarette finished in the ashtray. He thinks dimly that he should quit, and then get Freddy to quit – they’ve known what a danger smoking is since the eighties. It’s such a domestic thought – _I want the kid to quit smoking so he can stick around with me longer –_ that Larry doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s a relief when Freddy pipes up below him, yanking him out of his own head.

“You ever been with a woman before?” Freddy asks quietly, unbidden. Not because he minds – he’s really not the jealous type – but because he’s thought about Larry a lot. He’s thought about Larry too much. It’s hard not to wonder.

There’s a beat of silence, and Freddy’s heart jumps to his throat, thinking he’s made Larry mad. Maybe it’s a touchier subject than he thought. Freddy nearly sits up to apologize, the "shit, sorry," halfway out of his mouth, before Larry clears his throat.

“No,” he says. “Does that surprise you?”

“Honestly, yeah,” Freddy says, relieved. He settles himself back onto Larry’s chest, curls into him with one arm secured across his belly.

When Larry puts an arm across his shoulders in return, hand resting on his bare lower back, it's automatic. Freddy is quite enjoying having someone to hold him – it was something he always missed, when he went without a boyfriend for a while. 

“Even I’ve been with a chick, and I’m way faggier than you.”

Larry laughs. “Never had the interest,” he says. “Obviously.”

“And you didn’t get shit for it? No offense, old man, but you’re from a different time.”

Larry leans up slightly, lights himself another cigarette. When he blows rings, they’re large and confident, perfectly round, and perfectly white. They make Freddy’s look piddly by comparison.

“I took a factory job before –“ he gestures around, like his criminal career is laid out in Freddy’s apartment. “All this. My mother died when I was an infant, and my father was never around. I had flings with the guys I worked with, and told all the broads that floated my way that I was married and had forgot my ring that day.”

Freddy snorts, thinking of his own fake ring. “You’re something else, man,” he says, but his tone is fond.

“Yeah,” Larry says, smiling. He presses a kiss into the crown of Freddy’s head. “I guess I am.”


	5. Chapter 5

They fuck on the day of the heist, of course. Number nine – Freddy’s been counting. He’s not sure why, or what he’s waiting for, but they checked off eight the night before.

He wakes up abruptly, half-hard and half asleep but needing, more than anything, to be close to Larry. He’s shaken, immediately feeling like this is the day they strap him to the electric chair and pull the lever, make him walk the plank, force him to snort Kryptonite.

This is it. Your feature presentation, ladies and gents.

_Judgement day is here, hallelujah!_

The bed creaks, and if Larry’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. That, or the pre-dawn light is obscuring his features. Either way, he opens his arms for Freddy, kisses the unhappy wrinkle of his brow, and pulls him into his arms.

Freddy moans, his voice soft as it cracks. He holds on to Larry like he’ll never get another chance. He hopes he will – Oh, God, does he hope he will. Even if Larry hates him – as long as he’s alive, Freddy will be okay. Even if it means he goes instead of Larry.

And Larry doesn’t know what’s gotten into the kid, but he gives him what he asks for, and holds him as he comes. Larry’s not worried about himself, shakes his head when the kid reaches for him.

“Go get a shower,” he whispers. It’s so early, even the birds are still sleeping. It’d be a damn shame to ruin the peace. “I’ll make coffee.”

Freddy does, and together, they run through the most domestic morning of either of their lives. They drink coffee together – Larry takes his black, but with two sugars, and Freddy thinks that’s an accurate description his personality. He hogs all the toothpaste, and when Freddy fixes his hair in the mirror for the fifth time, he catches his hand and kisses it.

“Stop fretting,” he murmurs, yanking on Freddy’s tie. He redoes it with deft fingers, and then kisses Freddy for real. “And learn how to tie a tie.”

Freddy snickers, despite himself. They kiss again before Larry leaves, to be picked up by Nice Guy at his own apartment. Freddy had never seen it – he cuts himself off before he can wonder if he ever will.

“See you,” Freddy says softly, watching Larry go. He aches.

And then he’s –

Dying on the floor of the warehouse. Drowning in his own blood. He’s crying, wailing, _sobbing,_ making noises he’s heard, but never imagined coming from himself. He can’t see straight – Larry’s face goes in and out of focus.

He’s in agony, the gunshot wound blistering hot and swollen, and he’s dying – _O God I’m really dying,_ he thinks hysterically. Inexplicably, remembers being a child peering over the church pews, his mother over his shoulder, listening as they talked about death like it was a peaceful, wonderful thing.

Bullshit. Dying is blinding, excruciating pain, and he screams through it, all dignity dead with the bitch who shot him.

He’ll feel bad for that one, later. He killed that poor, scared woman.

Larry’s holding him tight, just like he asked. He carried him in here. It’s just them – none of the other Dogs have shown, after everything went to shit. Go figure.

Larry rocks him like a baby, and even though he’s fading fast, Freddy can tell he’s scared. Cooler-than-cool Larry Dimmick, _Mr. White,_ career criminal – he’s scared to death, and it sends Freddy into freezing, full bodied panic.

“You’re not gonna fucking die, you’re gonna be fine,” Larry is saying, crooning into Freddy's ear. His arms are slippery. Which is weird – has it been raining in here?

Is rain warm and red? Does rain come from his upper abdomen, two inches below his ribs, where it pulses with a nauseating heat? Panic makes Freddy’s legs twitch, because _Good fucking Lord that’s so much blood_ – and he pisses himself, through fear or muscle spasm.

He thinks, _I deserve this._

He thinks, _Christ Almighty._

Larry combs his wet, bloodied hair, whispers sweet nothings in his ear. Freddy thinks, _this is it._

And he wouldn’t say he’s particularly ready for it, either – he’s twenty-eight years old, for God’s sake. Larry would say he’s barely out of diapers. He still had things to do, places to go, people to see – comics to read. Christ, he’d never even been out of California. And he wants –

He wants a _life._ A real life, not the life of a Los Angeles bachelor. He wants to get old and crochety. He wants to be with Larry, who he loves so much it makes him stupid. He wants them to be together, senile, and still bickering in their rocking chairs.

He wants it to be him and Larry against the world, together. Living together. Being together. Dying together.

 _Am I going to hell?_ Freddy thinks deliriously, grasping Larry’s hand as it starts to slip. Larry is crying – so is he. The tears run down the side of his face, rather than his cheeks, due to how he’s lying: hard against the unforgiving warehouse floor. He’s so out of it, he can barely remember his name.

_Freddy – Orange – kid – sweetheart – pretty-boy –_

 _I’m definitely going to hell,_ he thinks. _Not just for being a faggot – but for being a lying faggot pretty-boy, who moans too loud and laughs too much. For being a goddamn cop fallen in love with a robber, breaking the oldest rule in the book. I offer my soul and ask for forgiveness –_

_Please forgive me, Larry. I’m so sorry, Larry. Please hold me, Larry, please love me, Larry._

_Please don’t leave me, Larry._

“I’m a cop, Larry,” Freddy moans, grasping at the white of Larry’s shirt, leaving a red print behind.

Larry makes a truly mournful sound, like a scream and a cry. Like someone had wrung out his still-beating heart. He shoots, and Orange dies.

But Freddy lives.

“Is he dead?” Mr. Pink asks, his ratty face twitching in anxiety. Where he came from, Larry doesn’t know or care. He looks up, blankly. The gun is still sizzling in his hand, and wonders if the bullet made a hole in the floor. That’s where he was aiming, and he doesn’t often miss.

And he’s crying – he can feel it pool in his eyes and dribble down his face, but he feels completely numb.

_Like the Floyd song,_ he thinks, the idea far away and hazy, like he were stoned. That had been on the radio this morning, before...

Before everything went to hell in a handbasket. Before Orange – Freddy – was drowning in a pool of his own blood, not a speck of white left in his shirt. There’s blood _everywhere,_ soaking into the kid’s knees now that the puddle has grown so big. There’s even blood streaked across his pretty pink lips.

And Larry can’t help it – he kisses him, even as he’s passing out. Even as Pink watches, let him fucking get off to it, Larry doesn't care. He kisses both Freddy’s cheeks, his lips, his long, feminine eyelashes he used at every opportunity, batted at Larry to make him feel weak in the knees. He loves this kid – by fucking God, he loves this kid, and him being a cop isn’t going to change that.

He doesn’t know what he shot for. He was angry – he’s still angry, but it’s fading fast to concern. Freddy is still dying, after all.

He shot for himself, maybe. To prove he wasn’t a pussy, that he could still shoot a cop, even like this. But he couldn’t shoot Freddy. Just – just couldn’t. It was never an option.

Larry kisses Freddy like the world is ending, because it kind of is, isn’t it? The little world of the Dogs is crashing down around their ears, and Larry holds Orange – Freddy – the kid – his _sweetheart_ close to his chest, babbling nonsense about how everything’s gonna be alright.

Larry cries, really cries. He cries ugly, loud and snotty and weak, because he’s going to fucking lose the kid. He’s going to lose Freddy, and once he does, he’s putting the revolver in his own mouth.

“No,” he says, addressing Pink through gritted teeth. The gun is still heavy in his hand, metal glinting in the harsh florescent light. He points it lazily at Pink, like his hands aren’t shaking, and Pink freezes. The hammer cocks audibly.

Larry’s in shock, and he feels like he needs to go throw up for a while – but he’s not fucking stupid.

“He’s alive,” Larry says. “Just passed out.”

Pink twitches. “We gotta go, man,” he says.

Larry looks up at him blankly. _Go where? To our deaths?_

Mr. Pink clears his throat, pulls at his collar. Freddy moans weakly, convulses in his arms.

“It’s not us they’re after, man,” Pink explains, ratty face upturned in impatience. “This was on Nice Guy and Joe – they got what they wanted and left the rest of us to rot. Why do you think the cavalry hasn’t shown up yet?”

Larry blinks. It _had_ been unusually quiet.

“I suggest you make a run for it,” Pink mutters, wetting his lips and eyeing the door. Larry’s eyes – and his gun – are still trained on him.

Larry shakes his head, clearing it. He could fall apart later. He’s got to be the sharpshooter right now, and not just for his sake. No way Freddy was dying because he fucks something up, in his delirium.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he says calmly, gun still aimed directly at Pink’s head. Even with him still on the floor, still cradling Freddy, it’s a dead shot. They both know it.

“You’re gonna help me get him to my car. And then you’re going to take us to our diamond shares,” Larry says, cool-as-hell. He buries everything he’s feeling, and his voice is smoother than butter.

“In return for your help, you get to keep your share – and the shares of the men who are not around to collect theirs. Understood?”

Mr. Pink twitches. This is fucking him up, Larry can tell. He keeps looking at Orange with guilty eyes – he was the youngest of the group, and they all knew what it was like to be a sticky-fingered kid, just trying to get through it. Mr. Pink was a strange one, but Larry would never call him cruel.

“I know a doctor,” he says finally. “Not far from here. We get the diamonds; you drop me someplace and go to this guy. He’ll fix Orange up.”

Larry looks back down at Freddy, where he’s breathing shallowly, eyes half shut, blood still wet and dripping all down him. Larry brushes the hair off his face. He nods slowly at Pink.

“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for roasting Mr. Pink in this one lmao


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be the end, but it got INSANELY long, so here's the beginning of the end (so to speak, haha).  
> also, no sex in this chapter. what a fuckin' shocker 
> 
> enjoy, yall

Freddy wakes up.

They caught him in the nick of time, within the window before damage became permanent. There’s nothing left of the ordeal at the warehouse but a thick swatch of gauze over his upper stomach, the skin underneath his ribs stitching itself back together. Pink’s doctor had been extremely talented – Freddy won’t even scar very badly.

He comes around not all at once, but in several different pieces. He feels like someone screwed his head on backwards – everything is a distorted, sickening echo of itself. He can’t sit up; and is in extreme pain if he tries.

But mostly he just feels comfortable, which he cannot, for the life of him, understand. He should not be comfortable. He should be writhing in pain, either via bullet wound or hellfire, but instead he’s being gently propped up on big, downy pillows. He knows there’s someone with him, has _some_ instincts left in him from the academy, but he can’t get his eyes open enough to see who it is.

He doesn’t understand how this is possible, and he doesn’t have the energy enough to ask. Things sound faint, far away – but he can make out the unmistakable twang of K-Billy’s voice. Even though he’s quite sure they aren’t in California anymore, Toto.

Shouldn’t he be dead? How many days has it been? His head hurts like a bitch.

He goes in and out.

Being human, Freddy has to piss, eventually. It’s a predicament he didn’t anticipate, but there’s no way around it now, with the ache in his bladder bordering on painful. He manages to find his voice, scratchy and unused though it was, to moan something about it.

Someone – _the someone from before?_ – helps him up, holds him steady under the armpits. It’s a long journey to the bathroom, slow going and painful, and Freddy finds himself wondering how this was taken care of while he was unconscious. He decides he doesn’t want to know.

He’s set on the open toilet seat, like a little kid who hasn’t learned to aim yet. And that’s fine, because Freddy finds he’s further from self-consciousness than he’s been in his entire life. He’s being taken care of right now, and that’s the fact of the matter. He pees.

Things continue to come in pieces. Sights and sounds, but not together. Someone is rubbing his back, his shoulders, where he aches from half-sitting-up in the same place for hours on end.

The radio is being turned on, again. There's the sound of static and the news as the stations are flipped through. Freddy wonders what day it is.

He finds himself too tired to make sense of it all. His energy abruptly saps, and he sleeps deeply – the kind of heavy hibernation found in only newborns and the healing. Freddy learns quickly that the two groups aren’t so different.

At one point, there’s a blonde woman in with him, folding laundry and giving him sweet little smiles. That makes absolutely no goddamn sense at all to Freddy, whose only thought is that this is the first time he’s been alone in a room with a woman since the summer after high school.

That had been the year he stopped pretending to be into chicks. And he wasn't ashamed, either - any kind of self-closeting in the past month was for the sake of "Mr. Orange". But Orange died on that warehouse floor, Freddy knows. It's just him now.

He's got to be honest, as there's no one left to hide behind.

The bathroom hand soap smells like lemons. The light blue walls are diarrhea-free, even smelling faintly of Spic ‘n Span. There are neatly folded hand towels on the corner of the sink, and Freddy thinks, quite belatedly, of his mother. He will never see her again.

There’s a hand in his hair, combing it back from his face. The radio is being clicked on, as it often was, and Dolly Parton is midway through crooning about Jolene and her man. There’s the sound of someone in the shower, across the hall. There’s the splatter of water against a tub floor, and the air smells like cheap, chemically soap.

Freddy comes around. And around. And around.

Until one day he wakes up, and he’s there. His mind has caught up with his body, and he’s awake and aware. His head hurts like a motherfucker, though, and his abdomen aches. His pride isn’t doing too hot, either.

His first instinct is to push himself up – can’t. He groans loudly as the dull pain in his stomach flares hot and irritated, drops back onto the comfortable mattress.

“Easy, buddy-boy,” someone warns.

Freddy blinks and looks up; he’d been unaware he wasn’t alone. There’s a second’s pause while his brain catches up to the image it's being presented. And then Freddy bursts into tears.

If you were to ask him later, he would say it was like every molecule in his body immediately wanted _Larry,_ no matter how much it hurt to get to him. He makes one of the stupidest moves of his life, and tries to get up, alone, with a healing gunshot wound in his side.

Instant, excruciating pain. Larry grabs him before he can get far, plunks him back in bed with strength Freddy didn’t know he had.

Freddy himself is hysterical – Larry can’t understand him, through all the snot and tears. His face has gone scarlet with exertion and embarrassment, and he’s sobbing, coughing – making himself sick with it.

Larry is at a loss, unmoving, with a stupid look of shock on his face. Freddy is a mess in his arms, crying and in pain. He wets his lips, deciding to take the situation by its reins. That, at least, he understands how to do.

“Okay, kid, alright,” Larry is saying, casting aside any reservations and crawling into bed with Freddy. Freddy kisses him crazily once he can reach, snots and all.

He’s shaking, babbling nonsense as he kisses Larry like he’s going to disappear out from under him. Larry silently obliges him, and eventually, the kid gets himself under control.

They end up face to face. Freddy’s not a short guy – he actually has an inch or so on Larry – but he’s a skinny thing, bitty like the runt of a litter. Larry pulls him in by his skinny waist, kissing his proper through his slowing tears.

He profusely thanks God – or whoever, at this point – that Freddy is alive.

Larry holds Freddy, holds him, and holds him and holds him, holds him to the Earth. And in return, Freddy breathes him in, greedy. The instant release of panic is better than any fuck he’s ever had.

Larry’s alive. Larry’s okay. Larry’s _here._

And Freddy blurts “I love you”, before he can stop himself, before he can bite it back and hold his tongue. Before he can gauge whether Larry loves him back or not. He’s had the sudden realization that it was _Larry_ that held his hand through this, hoisted him onto the toilet and rubbed his back.

Of course, it makes sense: who else was going to do it? But it’s still a shock to fully understand. What else can you say, when you realize someone had just held your life in their hands, has seen you at your most vulnerable? How else do you rationalize being protected, being brought back when you’re at your weakest, then with love?

What else can you say or do for the person who saved your life, other than tell them you love them?

“Oh, kid,” Larry mutters, pressing a kiss to the healed-scabbed skin of Freddy’s knuckles. He loves this fucking kid, he does, but – when was the last time someone had told him that aloud?

Years. Decades.

Gay men tended to be as emotionally constipated as Larry himself, but here comes this kid, who’s too open and honest to be a crook, so he was a fucking cop.

And Larry loves him so much.

“You shot me,” Freddy says quietly, tracing the line of Larry’s jaw. He needs to shave, but that’s okay. He’s probably been a little preoccupied.

“I missed,” Larry says simply, pushing Freddy’s sweat-slick hair from his forehead. He’s going to need a shower, soon, and Larry has no earthly idea how they’re going to navigate _that_ mess.

“Yeah, you did,” Freddy sniffles. That’s probably the closest he’s going to get to an “I love you, too”, but it’s just as well. He knows how Larry feels.

He buries his face in Larry’s chest, satisfied when Larry’s arm envelop him, and just allows himself to breathe. To feel, and hold, to be held. To be alive.

Then he sighs, and he asks, “Where the fuck are we, Larry?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this, a crossover episode?

“Mexico City,” Larry says, burying his nose in Freddy’s neck. He doesn’t have the words to articulate how relieved he is to see the kid _awake._ Sure, he’d been up before, but he wasn’t really with it. Now, they’re holding a conversation, and Larry could cry out of pure relief.

Nothing has ever scared him like seeing Freddy frail and unconscious, tucked into the white guest sheets up to his neck, like a doll. Only his chest moved during that time, and Larry found himself watching it through the night, smoking cigarette after cigarette and listening to the murmur of the radio. As long as his chest kept moving, up and down and up again, everything would be alright.

And it was. Freddy was a trooper, a tough guy through and through. He had lived. They made it out alive.

“Mexico,” Freddy repeats, confused. “What the fuck? Why Mexico?” It seems random, in the grand scheme.

“Old contact,” Larry explains. “Alabama Worley is her name. I’ve known her since… Shit, since forever. Before Joe, even. I knew her when she was a little girl, and she grew into a fantastic little thief. She’s since settled down, of course.”

Larry sighs, gathering his thoughts. “Don’t worry if you don’t remember much, Fred. You lost a scary amount of blood, and the doctor warned us there could be some memory loss. You were unconscious for most of the drive.”

Freddy hums, linking his fingers with Larry’s. He slots their legs together, enjoying the warmth. He’s got like, half of a situation in his pants, but he needs to know _what’s going on_ before he thinks of anything else.

“These are Alabama’s sheets we’re sitting on,” Larry continues. “She was nice enough to put us up, for now – and her husband was nice enough to move our ice. For a cut, of course – I’m not going to gyp the guy whose house we’re staying in.”

Freddy freezes. “You got the diamonds?”

“Sure did, baby,” Larry murmurs, and the pet name doesn’t escape Freddy’s notice. It’s no fucking ‘buddy-boy’, that’s for sure.

“When you’re ready, we can go anywhere we want. We’re set for this life and the next, kid.”

Larry chuckles, because fuck, it’s like a dream come true. He’s running away from it all, with a pretty young thing on his arm, who he loves so much it might just kill him. He runs his fingers through Freddy’s hair. “You got any ideas?”

“Wherever you are,” Freddy says softly. A few tears leak out of his eyes, and it feels like a betrayal by his body, because despite the waterworks, he’s never been happier. He kisses Larry again, feeling sloppy and stupid and high.

Larry pulls him close. “You know, you were passed out for most of it, but you came to when me and Alabama’s husband were trying to get you up the stairs.”

Freddy snorts, drying his eyes. “What, did I sock you one?”

Larry touches his face. Freddy hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s a yellow, fading bruise under his left eye. Freddy’s mouth drops open, making a horrified little _o._

“I did, didn’t I?”

Larry just laughs. “I can’t blame you, kid. I’d start swinging if I found two strange men carrying me, too.”

Freddy shakes his head. “Jesus,” he croaks. He brushes against the bruise with gentle fingers – Larry doesn’t flinch. “Sorry.”

“I understand where you were coming from,” Larry says. “It’s just – you pack one hard fucking punch, Fred, shit!”

Freddy laughs. He always did have a pretty good right hook.

“Yeah, really funny,” Larry says affectionately. “Anyway, Alabama and her husband, Clarence – they’re the ones we’re staying with. Good people. It’s just them and their little boy, so don’t ask me why they have all this extra space. But they do, and we’re lucky for it.”

“They got a kid?” Freddy asks. Alabama must have been the blonde woman he remembers – the one who was folding laundry. She couldn’t have been much older than him.

“Yup,” Larry says. He snickers. “And you’ll never guess what they named their kid, either.”

“What?” Freddy asks suspiciously.

“ _Elvis.”_

Freddy breaks out in a laugh, surprised. “You’re fucking with me, old man. Nobody names their kid Elvis. _”_

“Hand to God,” Larry swears, crossing his heart. “His daddy Clarence loves the King.”

“Go figure,” Freddy mutters. He can’t wait to meet this family.

Larry had first spoken to Alabama in a hurried payphone conversation, his eyes on Freddy, who sat slumped forward, unconscious in the passenger seat of his Caddy. He hadn’t said more than _diamonds, kid,_ and _dying,_ before Alabama was setting things up, making sure he wrote down the correct address with his shaking hands.

When he’d first laid eyes on her, after managing to haul Freddy into the Worleys’ guest bed and get punched in the process, she’d had a baby on her hip. And from the swell of her stomach – another one in the oven.

She handed him a bag of frozen peas for his burgeoning black eye. And it was her, alright – same big blonde hair and cheetah-print pants, mischief still shining in her dark, glossy eyes.

They hugged, despite the dried blood still clinging to him, and Larry had pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was good to see her like this, happy and healthy. He only wished it were under better circumstances.

The toddler in her arms whined, unhappy to have his mother’s attention stolen.

“Cute kid,” Larry managed, because despite how he feels about the little ones, this is _Alabama’s son._

“Say hello, Elvis,” Alabama had prompted him, and Larry laughed, making the little boy laugh. Shyly, he lifted his sweet, ruddy cheeks to the new person in his home.

“You’re kidding,” he had said, as Elvis’s daddy came down the stairs, recovered from the fight Freddy put up.

“Nope,” Clarence said easily, puttering into the kitchen. He clicked on the radio that Larry would eventually re-appropriate, and “ _Heartbreak Hotel”_ spilled through the speakers, proving his point.

Larry would later learn they had heard it all before. Clarence was unwavering in his opinion that his son should bear the same name as the King of Rock ‘n Roll, same as he was the day they signed it on the birth certificate.

“Listen, ‘Bama,” Larry had said, intentionally not leaning on any furniture with his still-bloodied clothes. “I appreciate you putting us up, okay?”

His voice was awkward to his own ears, but he didn’t hide it, with Alabama. There would be no point in it – she knew him way too well. All his tricks dried up when it came to Alabama’s knowing gaze.

Alabama had just waved an unassuming hand at him, as he knew she would. She’s softer around the edges, thanks to motherhood – but she had still pulled through for him. No matter what it was, no matter how valuable or precious, Alabama always made sure he had it.

They were a good tag-team, back in the day. Hide-and-seek, search-and-capture, find-and-retrieve.

Alabama absently patted her child’s back, slowly lulling him to sleep. That’s what Larry needed – to fucking _sleep,_ to drop onto a bed like a rock and sleep dreamlessly for a few hours. Thank God Alabama said they could stay, thank the sweet Lord Jesus. He was going to drive them into a ditch if he had to go much longer.

“You should know better than that, Larry Dimmick,” Alabama had chided him. “You’re my family – you _and_ that boy of yours.”

And Larry had thanked God for sparing the angel called Alabama.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a frankly fantastic time writing this. thanks for reading, everybody!!

Freddy heals. It’s ugly and involves almost pissing himself because he can’t hobble to the toilet fast enough, but he heals. Alabama has turned out to be a real good woman to shoot the breeze with, talk about nothing and smoke a cigarette with while he waited for the damn hole in his side to close.

She visits him in the afternoons, both of them relieved to have someone to talk to other than their men. She swore and joked dirty like the best of them, and she wore her baby proudly on her hip as she did. Freddy was careful not to smoke around the little one, though.

He learns just how much he loves Larry – he loved Larry like he had never loved anyone else, or would ever love anyone else, because Freddy was sure he’d never leave Larry. Either Larry left him, or they died together.

He was hoping for the latter.

Just watching Larry fold their laundry – _theirs ! –_ would make his heart spill over with affection. He cried about it, sometimes, about how full his heart was. He was fit to burst with how much he loved Larry Dimmick, and he had no regrets.

And the best part – the part Freddy can’t get over no matter how hard he tries – is that Larry loves him back. It’s just so obvious, now that he has all this time to slow down and look, to be aware of all the little things that so obviously spell it out.

Larry brings him coffee in the morning. Larry rubs his shoulders at night. Larry tells him bullshit stories and makes him finish his toast even though he just had (and finished) the entire eggs, bacon, and grits breakfast plate Alabama had so kindly made for them.

“Eat your fucking toast,” Larry would growl, angrily fluffing up his newspaper like a flustered hen. Freddy would laugh, give Larry a kiss on the mouth, and eat his fucking toast.

Freddy heals, and they don’t overstay their welcome. Alabama packs them too much food and Clarence gives them too many Elvis recommendations – _“It’s fucking great for driving, man!”_ – and they say goodbye, with hugs and handshakes and maybe even a few tears, if Larry’s being completely honest.

It’s been a fucking hell of a month, that’s for sure.

“You be good,” Alabama tells him, zipping up his jacket as a final goodbye. “And you _call me_ when you get yourselves to a landline, you hear? Freddy?”

Freddy turns around from loading their bags in the Caddy, as Larry had made the wise move to quickly raid both of their apartments before he took off for Mexico. “I hear you, Alabama,” he says. “I’ll keep him on the straight and narrow. Promise.”

“Ain’t nothin’ straight about it,” Larry mutters, not liking being ganged up on. He smacks Freddy’s ass, not bothering to be gentle.

“Let’s go, hot stuff.”

And then they’re off. They float down Mexico, but Freddy hates the heat. It made his fresh, tender skin pulse repugnantly, and his cheeks flush all year long. Humidity was all he’d ever known – he needs an ice-cold change.

So, they drift to Canada.

Names are changed and new passports are printed, but they’re still Larry and Freddy. Thelma and Louise. Bonnie and Clyde.

_Peanut butter and jelly,_ Larry would think. He was obviously peanut butter.

They have a lot of sex, too. A lot of sex – more sex than Larry can remember ever having with anybody, in his entire fifty-some years of living.

Freddy is just always around, always near, and with him, a friendly squeeze on the thigh can easily turn into hot, desperate, full-bodied fucking. Larry would swear up and down Freddy was lying about his age, because his endurance felt like _eighteen,_ not _twenty-eight._

At first, they stay in hotels – hotels, Freddy learns, are nothing like _motels._ He had yet to see a single roach. He knows they won't go like this forever – just until they really choose to settle.

And they do, eventually. In a few months, they’ll get tired of the open road, craving a living room and maybe a cat. But until then, they take in the freedom they had both been lacking, through long drives and hotel stays and trying local restaurants, the Northern kind with so much meat on the menu, it makes Freddy’s Cali-grown ass gag.

Freddy was ridiculously hard up for it, they also learn. He was a sweaty, mewling mess, pressing himself down on Larry’s fingers in the morning, his cock in the afternoon. Sucking him off in a large expanse of foreclosed property, the car shielding them from the main road. It hadn’t slowed down – any time they were within touching distance, s _omebody_ got off.

In a particularly nice hotel, they get a noise complaint filed on them. They throw some money at the front desk and continue loudly fucking, uncaring and rude and _fucking perfect,_ Freddy’s legs falling open for it, linking himself around Larry’s middle and feeling him slide inside, the thick weight of him stretching, stretching, stretching.

Freddy makes an awful noise. He throws his head back, and he screams. It’s mortifying, and he can’t believe he does it, but he does. Larry looks pleased as punch about it.

He’s crying, cheeks flushed pink, even though Larry had used enough lube that it doesn’t even sting, just the smooth, delicious in-and-out, and skin against skin. He realizes that he’s _happy-crying,_ something he thought happened exclusively to housewives on soap operas when they get the diamond ring they’d been horny for.

“Okay?” Larry whispers, and Freddy can’t speak, so he just nods vigorously.

_Don’t stop don’t stop don’t –_

Freddy suddenly understands the difference between _fucking_ and _making love._ He holds Larry so tight he leaves fingernail marks, little crescent moons in the starry sky of Larry’s freckled forearms.

Freddy comes, blows his load with his cock pressed between them, and it’s obscene. Jizz splatters up his stomach, and he goes boneless immediately, sinking into to the thousand-count hotel sheets. He feels lighter than air – it’s a good thing Larry’s pinning him down, or he just might float away.

Larry is still chasing his own finish, and Freddy holds on a little tighter, presses his tailbone completely up to Larry’s stomach, patiently inviting him to fuck into him. Little encouraging words fall from Freddy’s mouth, because Larry was older, and it took him a bit longer. Freddy didn’t mind. He enjoyed prolonging it, getting to be _this close_ for longer than if Larry was as quick as him.

Larry mouths at Freddy’s shoulder as he comes, and Freddy _feels it,_ now that he’s less distracted. He can’t ever remember feeling so filled up – _so complete_ – before.

Larry kisses him hot and hard on the mouth, his tongue a welcome intrusion. He pulls off with a pornographically wet pop.

“I love you, kid,” he murmurs, and Freddy thinks he’ll die happy.

It occurs to him, later, why he had been counting how many times they had sex. He had assumed they would never make it to double digits.

They drive. Canada is just as wide-open as America, if not more, because of their rules on billboards and other such eyesores. Freddy sucks Larry’s cock, loving on it long after Larry’s come, with the Caddy parked in a peaceful expanse of grass and trees, untouched by human development.

Freddy thinks that he did die, and even after all his misdeeds, he still managed to make it to heaven.

Larry thinks that he’ll never be happier to miss a shot.

Later, they lay in a post-coital mess in one hotel among the hundreds they’ll stay in, arms and limbs and dicks still out, Freddy half asleep on Larry’s chest, Larry finishing off his cigarette.

“G’night, Fred,” Larry murmurs. Freddy buries his face into Larry’s armpit, satisfied at where he’s ended up. He kisses the skin there, and promptly falls asleep.

Larry cards his fingers through Freddy’s hair, leans over to stub out the cancer stick that he _will_ quit, eventually. He clicks on the little bedside radio, pulls the sheets up around them, and falls asleep for himself.

_“This is… K-Billy’s Love Song Selection, with another one for all the lovers out there. We hope that wherever our listeners are tonight, they’ve got somebody to hold. This is Neil Diamond’s ‘And the Grass Won’t Pay No Mind’. “_

_“Listen easy,_

_You can hear God callin'_

_Walkin' barefoot by a stream_

_Come unto me_

_Your hair softly fallin'_

_On my face as in a dream_

_And the time will be our time,_

_And the grass won't pay no mind…”_


End file.
